In 2010, Leo was a ghost. Not a sad ghost, just a quiet one. He lived in a rented room above a violin repair shop in Bologna. By day, he transcribed Baroque cello suites for a musicology PhD he would never finish. By night, he taught himself production in a cracked copy of Fruity Loops on a Toshiba laptop that sounded like a hairdryer.
The folder is still there. He clicks on it.
"Listen to this," she said, slipping him a pair of HD-25s.